Doesn't Mean Anything
by BewareMySpork
Summary: They’re meeting in the dingy hotel room, off the highway, halfway to Dayton, but it doesn’t mean anything.' Another one-shot, drabble idea. More angsty. Almost any pairing can work. Sexual Themes and all that good stuff.


It doesn't mean anything.

She just happened to catch his eye in the empty music room, the old, fuzzy florescent lights casting a sickly green glow against her skin, throwing it into sharp relief, hiding half off her face in shadow, half illuminating the pores on her face that not even make-up could hide. It doesn't mean he finds her more beautiful than she can imagine. It doesn't mean that he finds her more attractive he can finally see a flaw somewhere on her. It doesn't mean anything.

It doesn't mean that she's enjoying the hungry, heated look in his eyes. Because she just so happened to stare at his shirt and almost see the slim stomach underneath doesn't mean she wants to run her hands along the skin. It doesn't mean anything that she's staring at his skin, wanting to run her tongue along it, hear his breath hitch. It doesn't. It does. Not. Mean. Anything.

When he gives her his number, tells him to call that night, it doesn't mean anything. It's a passing fling. It doesn't mean anything at all. When she accepts, it doesn't mean that she's looking forward to it. The fleeting look they give one another tells all. It simply does not mean one fucking thing.

When she calls him that night, after a few hours hesitation, it doesn't mean anything. She's just calling. It doesn't mean one thing. When he answers, and smiles, voice husky, it doesn't mean anything. It's a fling. It doesn't mean one thing. He wastes no time in telling her to meet him that next afternoon at the Motel 8 halfway off the highway to Dayton. His stomach does not tighten when she says yes after a few minutes. It means nothing. They know that.

He races out to his car around the same time she races out to hers. It doesn't mean anything.  
They park next to each other. A fluke. It doesn't mean anything. It doesn't mean anything as they smile at each other, and it definitely doesn't mean anything when they walk into the lobby of the hotel, and they don't get butterflies in her stomach when the girl at the desk tells them she thinks they make a cute couple. They both know. It doesn't mean anything.

They're meeting in the dingy hotel room, off the highway, halfway to Dayton, but it doesn't mean anything. Does not mean one. Single. Thing.

It doesn't mean one single thing as he grabs her hand and drags her into the elevator, while she's giggling. The giggling doesn't mean anything either. It's just noise. It doesn't mean anything. It does not matter one bit that he's shoving his body against hers as though God himself is demanding it. It doesn't mean a thing as he slams his lips against hers in a heated, lust-filled kiss. It means nothing when she wraps her arms around his neck, and it means nothing that her legs are being dragged against his legs, and it means nothing when she locks him prisoner between them. They both know. It doesn't mean a single thing.

It means nothing when they topple out of the elevator, gasping, panting, nearly hitting the business man and his callgirl as they're waiting to get onto the elevator. It doesn't mean anything when they laugh at the sight. It doesn't mean one single thing when he grabs her hair and drags her back into another kiss. It means nothing as they roll around in the hall, kissing and grinding as though their lives depended on it. It doesn't mean a thing when he drags her upright and she drags him, kissing, groping to their door. It means nothing when she giggles as he fumbles with the key while he still tries to kiss her. That too means nothing.

It doesn't mean anything when he kicks the door open, carrying her now as he kicks at the switch to turn it on. It doesn't mean anything that she's still grinding her hips against his as she kicks the door closed, and it doesn't mean anything when he chuckles. It means nothing when he slams her against the bed, starts biting her neck as she moans, sending him into shivers of meaningless ecstasy as his jeans grow tight against her. It means nothing as they lock themselves, nude, into the throws of passion, meaningless, mind-blowing passion. They both know. They. Both. Know. It means absolutely nothing. Absolutely. Nothing.

It means nothing when an hour later he's laying on top of her, sweat mingling, panting. It means nothing that she's drawing lazy circles against his back, and the simple certainly does not feel nice. The silence between them is not awkard, guilty, confused. It means nothing as he gets up a few minutes later, and starts searching for his clothes, smiling lazily at her and gently tossing her clothes. It means nothing when she smiles shyly back. It means nothing when he kisses her on the forehead, and it means nothing when she wraps her arms loosely around his neck. She's certainly not holding him there. Not at all.

He certainly does not regret it when he has to pull away, and turns around to leave. He looks back as he opens the door, and catches her gaze. They both know. They've known all along.  
It doesn't. Mean. Anything.


End file.
